


Time After Time

by ShortInsomniac98



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Groping, Homophobia, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internalized Homophobia, Lemon, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn With Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 14:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortInsomniac98/pseuds/ShortInsomniac98
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have known each other for over six thousand years. Through time, they drift apart and back together, but somehow their reintroductions are always the same, and that usually involves a bloody nose. Based on a request for a fic in which Crowley gets into fights with people over whether or not he identifies as gay, and Aziraphale intervenes.





	Time After Time

**_Israel, circa 1000 BC_ **

There was a roaring like an angry mob out in the street, shouting, a clatter of sandals on pavement, and all that could only mean one thing: a stoning was about to take place.

Aziraphale sighed and set down the scroll he had been reading, and he walked to the door to see what poor adulteress or thief they’d caught this time.  Through the dust and the sea of linen robes, he saw a man being dragged down the road by his hair, kicking and biting and saying some particularly horrible, albeit nearly unintelligible, things.  The man regained his feet and shoved the man who had been dragging him into a wall with all his might, only to be dragged off by two other men and thrown once more into the dirt.

The angel was just about to go back inside when he realized something: the man at the center of all this had bright, flaming red hair.  Not exactly something you see every day in King David’s Israel, he thought.  There was only one person it could possibly be. Aziraphale debated with himself whether or not he should intervene or let this one play itself out.  Crowley did so enjoy these little scuffles.

But then, he saw ropes coming out, and he knew that never ended well.  He sighed and stepped out into the street.

“Gentlemen,” he said, not particularly loudly, and they all stopped dead in their tracks.  One man had the redheaded demon pinned to the wall from behind, his wrists held together behind his back but not yet bound. “Gentlemen,” he said again as he came closer, “what is the offense of this poor wretch?”

“He was overheard making advances toward another man,” said the man with the rope.

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on Crowley, who had ceased his struggle to get away, but who was still out of breath and a bit shaken, his robes slightly askew and the whole of his person covered in dirt and what looked to be blood.

“But he  _did_  nothing?” Aziraphale said, and no one answered. “You didn’t  _see_  anything?”

“Well, no, sir, we didn’t, but—”

“You only heard him say something?”

“Yes, sir, he was—”

“What was it he said?” Aziraphale asked sternly.

“Tell the man, you cur,” said the man holding Crowley as he threw him to the ground.

Crowley laughed, albeit a bit weakly, and he sat up a bit, leaning nonchalantly on his elbows.  “I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind a taste myself.’ Too bad these fine men didn’t tell you what that was in response to, but that’s the state of things.”

“Shut up,” said a third man, kicking one of his arms and making him fall onto his back again.

The crowd around them laughed.  Aziraphale gave Crowley a sympathetic glance.

“I would like to know what it was in response to, actually,” said Aziraphale, “and why the other man was not brought out as this one was.”

“Oh, sir,” said a fourth man, stepping forward, “he said it to-to one of the king’s men, sir.”

“A soldier?” Aziraphale said laughingly, thinking about just how ironic that was.

“No, sir, an adviser, sir,” the man said.

“Oh.”

“Go big, I say,” Crowley said with a snakelike grin, which was quickly wiped off his face by a raised foot.  He flinched back, and the owner of the foot laughed, lowering it again without making contact.  “Anyhow,” he added, “I didn’t mean anything by it.  Just a joke.  You don’t honestly believe…oh, never mind.  Halfwits, the lot of you.”

“So you are to punish this man for saying something stupid?” Aziraphale concluded.

“Uh…” the man with the rope trailed off, looking around at the mob that had gathered for that sole purpose.

“My good man, if we were to punish every man who said something stupid, I think we’d all be stoned,” said Aziraphale.

“I wouldn’t exactly mind that, being stoned,” said Crowley, earning a look from his acquaintance which said, “You really aren’t helping matters here.  This is what got you into this circumstance in the first place, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk you out of it.  Thank you.”  He shut his mouth, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“And which of you has not said something along the lines of what this man said, to a woman or a young girl?” Aziraphale reasoned, and all around him, the men became silent.  “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Around them, stones clattered to the ground and people slowly began to disperse.  The man with the rope shoved it into the angel’s chest and turned to follow the crowd.  Crowley, laughing yet again, stood up.  Without checking to make sure no one was looking, he snapped his fingers, and the dirt and blood were gone.  Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he scanned the crowd for any stray glances.

“Thanks, mate,” Crowley said, patting Aziraphale on the shoulder.  “But I do believe you’ve done something radical about a thousand years too early, and which should be attributed to someone else.”

“I’m just as capable as you are of dramatics,” said Aziraphale.

“I would hope so,” said Crowley.  “Where’re you staying nowadays?”

“Just down the street there.”  He pointed to his shop on the corner.  “I heard the commotion from just there.”

“Funny,” said Crowley. “I’m staying there.”

He pointed up to the palace, and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Surely you’re joking,” he said.

“Nah.  Like I said, go big.”

“Tea?” Aziraphale asked as they walked back toward his home.

“Seems a couple hundred years early as well, but why not,” Crowley said, following him in.

Crowley sat at the table scratching something into its surface with a small knife he’d had with him but not bothered to use till now.  Aziraphale, stowing the rope in a cabinet and carefully pulling the kettle off the fire, shut his eyes and tried not to sigh to exasperatedly as he thought about just how long it would take to forget, even after he’d willed the markings away, that they had been there.

“Did you know the king has taken a male lover?” asked the angel a few moments later, setting a cup on the table in front of his acquaintance as he walked around to sit opposite him.  “And he is said by his people to be a man after God’s own heart.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

“Yes, but…still, he is rather well-thought-of upstairs,” Aziraphale said, taking a sip from his own cup. “Anyway, I’m just saying I don’t have a problem with it.  If you are, I mean,” he added quickly.

“I’m not,” Crowley said, leant heavily on his elbows, glaring down into the cup in front of him. “I mean, I can’t be.  I’m a demon, formerly an angel.  I don’t think that kind of thing applies to me.  Lust and all that.  I mean, certainly I’m capable of the result, if someone needs tempting, or if I feel so inclined, but…the attraction thing.  I don’t think I’ve got it, one way or the other.  What I said to that man was just a joke, nothing more.”

“Hm,” the angel hummed, barely paying attention anymore to Crowley’s rambling as he fixed his attention on a roll of parchment.  “You know, they’re already writing his history.”

Crowley sat up, craning his neck a little to see the page.  “Whose?”

“The king’s.”

“Who’s writing it?”

“Religious scholars,” he said.  “My side. Well, Hebrews.”

“Uh-huh.  Any mention of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“The adultery?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, looking up now, his brow furrowed.

“The wars?”

“Of course, but—”

“And this Jonathan? Any mention of  _him_?”

“There is, briefly,” Aziraphale confirmed.  “What are you getting at?”

“Some message they’re giving to the masses if they’re calling this man ‘after God’s own heart,’ or whatever it was.”  He smirked, taking a sip from his cup now.  “Makes our side look good.  Erm, my side.”

Aziraphale grinned smugly as he looked down at the scroll again.  He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“I didn’t tell you his name.”

“Whose?”

“The king’s lover.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You must have.”

“I didn’t.”

“Huh.  Guess I…heard it around somewhere then,” Crowley said, a pinkish tinge rising in his complexion.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, still smiling as he continued reading to the next scroll.

* * *

**_Rome, circa 300 BC_ **

It was well after midnight when out in the streets, Aziraphale heard the clatter of a pair of running feet, followed quickly by a herd of running feet, coming from the direction of the bathhouses.  Lifting the curtain, he peered outside to see the demon Crowley being pursued by three men and two women, a few of which had blades drawn.  He sighed and listened a while longer, hearing nothing for a while but the sounds of the party’s bickering.

“I think he went down there.”

“No, he went up there.”

“I thought he went that way.”

“He couldn’t have gone that way, he must be down here.”

“Cicero, you shouldn’t have said that to him.”

“I thought that was what he was there for.”

“You can’t assume that every young man alone in the bathhouses at this hour is a  _cinaedus_ , Cicero!”

“She’s right.  I think you deserved to get hit for that.”

“He certainly hit like a  _cinaedus_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Cicero?”

“Nothing.  I think he went that way.”

And with that, they turned around and ran in the direction they had come in from.  Above, Aziraphale swore he heard footsteps on the roof, which disappeared rather abruptly, as though someone had climbed up there, and almost immediately thought better of it.

* * *

**_Norway, 962 AD_ **

“Tell us, little one, why it is you won’t go with us?”

“For starters, because I think it’s a stupid venture,” said Crowley with a shrug as a large blonde man heisted him up from his seat.

“You are womanly and weak,” said the man.

Crowley laughed with the moronic confidence of a man who rather enjoys this kind of thing.

“You offer yourself to men,” said the man.  “Say it. Say that you offer yourself to men.”

“I don’t think I do,” said Crowley.  “Usually, they offer themselves to me, and I have to tell them no because I’m too busy with your wife.”

The man’s eyes widened in rage, his nostrils flared, and he shoved Crowley onto the table, sending dishes and food clattering everywhere and spilling warm, sticky mead into Crowley’s hair in the process.

“That’s the main reason I don’t want to go, really,” said Crowley.  “I’d rather be here with the women than on a boat with a bunch of stinky men and animals.  Well, the women and my friend Riffel here.”

He jabbed a thumb in Aziraphale’s direction.  Aziraphale had been in the midst of a fascinating conversation about the history of runestones with a young sorceress when suddenly he was dragged into the conversation.

“Yes,” he sighed, coming over to where the large warrior was busy brutalizing his acquaintance. “Sven.  It is Sven, isn’t it?  Sven, could you please let my friend go?  He’s just an idiot, you see.  He really rather enjoys this kind of thing.”

Sven let go of Crowley, giving him time to scramble to his feet and walk around to where Aziraphale was standing on the other side of the table.  The two of them standing there together looked very odd indeed, and in fact very humorous to Sven, who burst into a fit of laughter.

“Yes, you are quite the couple.  I can see now,” he said.  “I will leave you then.  The women will be needing help with the washing, and you’ll be needing each other, I imagine.”

“I hope he dies in battle,” Crowley mumbled under his breath, and Aziraphale elbowed him sharply. “What?  He might.  I hear your side is supposed to win this one.  That’s why I’m not going,” he said with a smirk, and he picked up his toppled over glass and willed it to refill itself as he sauntered off, rather amused with himself.

* * *

**_Dublin, Ireland, shortly after Easter 1916_ **

Monday morning. Dawn.  Crowley strolled into Aziraphale’s Duke Street bookshop donning a dark three-piece tweed suit, sans jacket.  That he held in his hand.  His hair was pulled back neatly and he wore a flat cap almost the same color as his suit. And he had a pocket handkerchief held to a bleeding nose.  Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the sight.

“Please tell me you weren’t involved.”

“Nah, this lot’s all your people,” Crowley said, plopping down in one of the chairs near the desk. “I did file reports on the…well, the other side.  Not ours. Yours, too, I think.  A lot of them anyway.  Filed ‘em as mine to save your lot the explanation.”

“Th-thank you,” Aziraphale said, confused.

He had tried his hardest not to get involved in the local politics, but now he almost wished he had, just so he could understand whatever it was Crowley meant.  All he knew was that there was an awful lot of shooting and the streets had closed and he had to board up the windows.  He’d even had to place a few miracles on the doors to keep them from being kicked in.

Outside, a series of bangs sounded out from several guns at once.  He flinched at the noise.

“All morning it’s been like that,” he said shakily.

“I know,” said Crowley, dabbing his nose and looking down at the red-soaked handkerchief in his hand.

Aziraphale’s lip curled up in disgust.  “If you weren’t involved, what did happen to you?”

“You ever had a good old fashioned pub fight, angel?”

“No.  I haven’t,” he said shortly.

He blinked and the blood ceased to pour out of the demon’s nose.  Crowley said nothing but tucked the bloody handkerchief into his left trouser pocket.

“What about this time?”

“Accused of blowing a priest,” he answered, absentmindedly looking down at his watch.  “Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…” he mouthed.

“What are you…?”

“Sh!  Six, five, four, three, two…”

_Bangbangbangbangbang!_

Aziraphale jumped again. “Must they keep doing that?”

“Your people, love. You go ask them.”

“You recorded it.  You stop it.”

“Ah, but then I think I’d be doing a good deed, saving a bunch of Catholic Irishmen.”

“But you’ve no trouble starting a fight over a silly rumor.”

Crowley chuckled.  “That’s my style.  Gotta protect my reputation,” he said with a sly grin.  “My  _masculinity_.”

“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word,” said Aziraphale, turning to place a stack of books neatly on the shelf behind the desk, and also to hide the reddish tint that was starting up in his face.  He came around the desk, still not looking at Crowley, and put a few newer editions on the display at the center of the room.

“Why don’t you show me then,  _angel_?” Crowley teased.

The next thing he knew, he was being dragged into the back room by his necktie.  Aziraphale didn’t even bother to turn on the light.  He just slammed the door shut and Crowley into it. The door handle dug into Crowley’s hip and he winced.

“Hey,” he started to say, stepping forward, but the angel pushed him back again, this time avoiding the door handle.

“Oh, I thought you liked this kind of thing,” Aziraphale said, his voice low as he yanked Crowley down to his level roughly, causing his hat to fall to the floor.

There was a fiery sense of rage in his eyes, and something else, too, which Crowley had seen before. Just not in these eyes.  He laughed under his breath and started to say something, but he was cut off by the angel’s lips on his.  It came as a surprise, and for an instant, his instinct was to shove him away, but after a moment, he melted into the kiss.  Well, as much as he could with how rough and unrefined it all was.  Crowley started to kiss back, and gradually he slowed it down, and they fell into a gentle rhythm of kisses.  Aziraphale pulled the band out of Crowley’s hair and slid a hand into it, and he pressed his own body closer to Crowley’s.  His other hand, he slid down Crowley’s torso, down to the front of his trousers.

“ _Mm_ ,” Crowley moaned, but it wasn’t a pleasant one.  He shoved Aziraphale off him, nearly throwing him into the back wall of the small room.  “What the fuck was that about?”

“I—”

“No.  I’m sorry.”  Crowley flicked the lights on and stared at him for a moment, looking betrayed and disgusted.  “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to happen right now.  This…I…Just  _no_.  I can’t.”

“I…I didn’t want to either,” stammered Aziraphale quickly.  “I just thought that was what you wanted me to do.”

“Right,” Crowley said, sobered.  He nodded. “No, I…I guess I’ll see you around. Good day.”

He stooped to pick up his hat, turned, opened the door, and walked out, shutting it behind himself. Aziraphale passed his hands over his face, embarrassed, and he let out a soft groan.  This was why he didn’t often partake in human activities like this. It always ended poorly, and even if it didn’t, there was always some mess or other in the end.

When he opened the door again, Crowley was gone, nowhere to be found, and the firing squad down the way was still going.

* * *

**_New York City, 1956_ **

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Aziraphale turned around swiftly to see a familiar figure standing just outside the theatre.  He let out a single, small, breathy laugh.

“Mr. Crowley,” he said in a dreadful fake New York accent.  “Good to see you.”

“Oh my God,” Crowley muttered, barely audible, before extending his hand and saying with a slight frown, “Good to see you, too.  How have you been?”

“Good, good,” Aziraphale said quietly, dropping the accent.

Behind him, a man in a suit and scarf had stopped amid the crowd to shake a middle aged couple’s hands and sign their daughter’s Playbill, but his glance kept cutting back to Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Who’s your friend?” Crowley asked, nodding toward the man.

Before the angel could answer, though, the man called over, “You coming, Raf?”

Crowley smirked. “Raf?”

“Shut up,” Aziraphale hissed.  “Um, no, Fred, you go on without me,” he called back in his bad New York accent.

Crowley snickered, earning an elbow to the ribs.

“Alright, then,” the man said as he departed.  “See you tomorrow night.”

“Alright.”

“Raf?”

“Short for Raphael.   _A. Raphael_.  That’s what I’m going with for now.”

“Uh-huh.  And how’s he feel about you using his name?”

“It’s after the artist, not the archangel, and I don’t think he minds,” said Aziraphale almost snappily. “Anyway, we can’t all have names like  _Anthony Crowley_.  Some of us have to improvise.”

“I made that name myself,” said Crowley proudly.  “You could do the same.”

“I’m not allowed to change my name permanently.”

“But constantly changing it temporarily is fine, somehow.”

“You were looking for me? Here?”

“ _My Fair Lady_ ,” Crowley said, reading the sign above the door. He glanced at his friend.  “Very  _you_. Tell me, are you the fair lady or the stuffy professor?”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“I thought we should talk. About…well, about last time.”

“That was forty years ago.”

“Seems yesterday to someone like us, though, doesn’t it?” Crowley mused.

“What is there to talk about?  You said no, I stopped.”

“Is that how you chose to remember it?”

Silence.

“Just as well,” Crowley said with a sigh.

“It’s cold,” said Aziraphale, changing the subject.  “Come with me?”

“Oh you live here?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, leading him down the street.

They walked a ways in silence before Crowley asked, “Broadway then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “What about it?”

“Seems very you.”

“You said that.”

“I mean it,” Crowley said. “And that man?  The one signing those programs?”

“Playbills,” Aziraphale corrected him.  “They’re called Playbills, and his name is Fred.”

“What’s he do?”

“He’s a writer.”

Crowley laughed.  “Of course.”

“He writes musicals,” said Aziraphale, pulling out his keys as they approached the front door of a dark bookshop.  A bell rang when the door opened, and he flipped the lights on.  “The one we just left, for instance.  Did you see it?”

“I saw it a few weeks ago,” said Crowley.  “Miss Andrews, I believe, is really something.”

“Oh, isn’t she?” Aziraphale beamed.  “She’s wonderful.  Practically perfect.”

“Hm…wouldn’t go that far,” Crowley said, hopping up on the desk, planting his ass smack in the middle of a stack of papers.

Aziraphale made a face. “So, er, what have you been up to?”

“The usual.”

“You slept, didn’t you?”

“Ah, for about ten years, then I gave it up for about fifteen.  Horrible decision really.  Went to France and Germany for a bit until the…oh, you know.  You were there for some of it.”

“I didn’t see you,” said Aziraphale.

“I was there.  Mostly hiding.  Not from you.  I was actually looking for you for a while.  Caught up with you here.”

“You did.”

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” said Crowley.  “I was too harsh toward you.”

“You were uncomfortable.”

“You know, that’s the thing, though.  I wasn’t. Well, I was.  I was uncomfortable with how comfortable I felt when you, erm…well.”

“When I kissed you.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley slowly, “and I was hoping you could do it again.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, who was pretending to straighten some books.  He stopped when Crowley said that.

“But, you’re with Frank now, so…”

“Fred.”

“Fred, right. Sorry.  You’re with Fred, so I don’t want to come bet—”

“Shut up.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley down off the desk and kissed him, hard.  Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, kissing him back as he pressed his body forward.  Without thinking, Aziraphale started backward, dragging Crowley with him in the direction of the back room.  They broke the kiss long enough to find the couch which sat at the back of the room, and in that brief moment, Crowley saw that it was almost identical to the back rooms of nearly all of Aziraphale’s bookshops for the last four hundred years or so.  The furniture had been updated around 1889, but beyond that, the setup was just the same.

“Just as I remembered it,” Crowley joked, kissing Aziraphale a little more tenderly than before.

“Different shop, same everything else,” the angel laughed under his breath.

His hand slid up Crowley’s thigh, giving him time to stop him, but he didn’t.  He only kissed him even harder.  Aziraphale’s hand came to rest on the front of Crowley’s trousers, and he found that he was already half-hard.  He pressed his hand into him, earning a soft moan in response, which vibrated gently through the kiss.  Aziraphale’s lips trailed lower, down to Crowley’s neck, and his hand rubbed and squeezed him through his trousers.

Crowley buried a hand in Aziraphale’s hair and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and involuntarily, his hips began to move in time with the hand on the front of his trousers. Had he been a little more self-aware, or perhaps if he had cared a smidge more, he might have been embarrassed. Now, though, all he could think was how good it felt, and that maybe he should return the favor.  But just as he had talked himself into such a thing, Aziraphale was gone from beside him, having dropped to his knees between Crowley’s legs and the coffee table.  He unfastened Crowley’s trousers and pulled them down along with his underpants, just low enough to free him from their confines.

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, to say that he didn’t want  _that_ , but something stopped him.  Perhaps it was the fact that he did, in fact, very much want it.  Or maybe it was the angel’s hands on him— _directly_  on him.   _Skin to skin_.  Crowley’s eyes shut and his head fell back into the headrest as Aziraphale stroked him.  Then there was his tongue slowly circling the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed out.

He placed his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s head, grabbing hold of a handful of his hair as he tried not to buck into him.  Aziraphale took more of him into his mouth.

“Angel,  _please_ ,” he groaned.  “ _Hmm_ …”

“Sh,” hushed Aziraphale, pressing a gentle kiss to his inner thigh, then his mouth was on him again, gently sucking, licking.

Crowley moaned softly and his hips rose involuntarily.  Aziraphale gagged and readjusted himself.

“Sorry,” Crowley said half-heartedly, breathing hard.

It was getting harder for him to contain himself.  The pleasure was building and he knew soon it would be over.  He wasn’t sure what would happen then.  He knew what happened with women, and…well, with men, too.  Just, not like  _this_ , and not with the angel.  He tried not to think about it.

Aziraphale slid him out of his mouth slowly, letting his teeth graze over his shaft as he slid him back into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat.  Crowley made a soft whimpering noise and pulled Aziraphale’s hair a bit.  His back arched off the back of the sofa and his head dug back further into the headrest.

“Aziraphale,” he gasped, “almost…oh,  _fuck_.”

He came then. Hard.  His hips rose again, his whole body tensed, and he held onto the back of Aziraphale’s coat tightly.

“Oh, my God,” he said, breathing hard as he came down from that, his body relaxing, his eyes still closed.

He felt the cushions to his left sink down a bit as Aziraphale sat down beside him.  Heard him clear his throat.

“Do you often invoke the name of your creator when you climax?” Aziraphale laughed, a bit hoarse.

“Force of habit,” said Crowley.  “Everyone else does it, so,” he paused, and sighed shakily, feeling a bit of an after-effect, “so I guess I took up the habit from hearing it so much.  It is a bit odd; I apologize,” he added.

Crowley smiled then, and he pulled his trousers back up as he looked at the angel beside him.  “Your turn?” he asked slyly.

* * *

**_London, England, early 1980s_ **

The years passed by as they always had.  They drifted apart, and drifted back together again as they always did.  Neither of them mentioned that night.  They didn’t have to.  They both knew it wasn’t meant to happen again, and there was no sense in bringing it up again.  At least, that’s how Aziraphale felt, mostly because Crowley left the next day without so much as a by-your-leave.

Eventually, as was the habit, Aziraphale returned to London to his old Soho stomping grounds, reopened his bookshop, and went on with his life, perfectly content with himself. Crowley wound up there again himself, resumed residence at his old flat, and took up the hobby of tending to houseplants.  They kept in touch, of course, making sure they each knew what the other was up to.

Then the Antichrist was born, and everything changed.  Everything became a bit more urgent.  There was less time.  Eleven years or so and everything they had become so accustomed to would be gone. They had to make their time count.

And they had to start looking after the damned child.  That was their decision, of course, and they took it very seriously.  Aziraphale thought maybe, though, Crowley took it a little too seriously, because when he arrived at the child’s house, there was Crowley at the door, dressed as a woman.

“Afternoon, Mrs., um…”

“Nanny Ashtoreth,” said Crowley sharply from behind his small, round sunglasses.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, his lips curled back in a slight grimace.  He extended his hand, and Crowley took it in a strong, un-lady-like way and shook it.  “Mr. Francis,” he introduced himself.

“Of course,” Crowley said. “I’ll show you to the Madam of the house.”

“ _Why_ …” the angel groaned under his breath, watching Crowley walk ahead of him, swaying his hips slightly as he did, like a damn woman.

“We must do what we must do,” Crowley had told him, and Aziraphale could have sworn he saw him wink behind those dark-tinted glasses.  “And I find the skirt to be quite comfortable.  Freeing, even.”

“Where’s the child?”

“Asleep.  You’ll meet him later, I assume.”

The first few months went by and Nanny Ashtoreth and Mr. Francis spoke only as necessary, mainly because their jobs hardly ever crossed paths, but also because Aziraphale could hardly look at Crowley in that damned dress without either blushing or laughing. Sometimes both.

One evening after work, after Aziraphale had retired back to his bookshop, there was a knock at the door. Agitated and a bit wearily, he set his cocoa down and got up and started toward the door.

“We’re not open!  Come back another day!” he shouted.

He turned on the light in the main shop room, and there in the center aisle stood Crowley, the door standing open behind him.  He waved a hand and the door slammed shut.

“Don’t do that!” cried Aziraphale.

“Okay, fine,” said Crowley, and he went back to the door, opened it manually, and then slammed it shut again forcefully.

Aziraphale sighed, closing his eyes momentarily.  “You really are,” he started to say, then cut himself short when he opened his eyes again and saw Crowley walk past him.  “Wait, are you limping?”

“Don’t worry about it, angel.”

Crowley walked nonchalantly toward the back room, where he sat down in Aziraphale’s chair, kicked his shoes off, and sat with one foot on the floor and the other in the chair, his skirt hiked up rather impolitely.

“Really!” Aziraphale said when he walked in to see this.  He took his cocoa and went across the room to sit at the table.

“Somebody’s in a horrible mood,” Crowley said, the roll of his eyes just barely visible behind his glasses.

“You broke into my shop.”

“I didn’t break anything. I opened the door and walked in.”

“It was locked.  That usually means  _stay out_.”

“Yeah, but do you really want me to? I mean  _really_  want me to?”  Crowley giggled.

“Are you drunk?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, a little,” said Crowley.  “It’s just this end of the world thing.  I don’t care for it much.”

“Ha,” Aziraphale laughed flatly.  “You and me both.”

Crowley pulled his skirt up higher and raised his hips to yank his pantyhose down while Aziraphale stared on in horror.  After some struggling, he finally got them off and tossed them onto the floor.

“I hate these bloody things,” he said.  “I don’t know how women can stand them.  I’m chafing from wearing them all day.”

“Deodorant,” said Aziraphale helpfully.

“What?”  Crowley narrowed his eyes.

“Deodorant,” Aziraphale said again.  “The kind that comes in stick form.  If you put that on your legs, that won’t happen.”

“Huh.”  Crowley looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “Hey, how do you know that?”

“Trade secrets,” said Aziraphale, sipping his cocoa.

“You sell books.”

“I try not to.”  He winked.

“Terrible, you are,” Crowley said with a smile.

“So,” Aziraphale said after a moment’s silence.  “Are you going to tell me why it is you’re limping?”

“No,” said Crowley, giggling again.

“I thought you were done fighting, Anthony Crowley,” said Aziraphale, a bit disappointed.

“Wasn’t really a fight so much as it was a chase and then getting the shit beat out of me,” he said, his face scrunched a bit as he recalled the event and tried to put it all in order for Aziraphale, who sighed.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“I can tell you what I’d like you to do with me,” Crowley smirked.

“Don’t get started now,” said Aziraphale without much protest as Crowley crossed the room and stood in front of him.  “We’re getting too old for that.”

“We don’t age.  You’re making excuses.”

“Really….”

“Please, angel,” said Crowley softly, sitting on the edge of the table in front of him and drawing him to his feet.

“You’re incorrigible,” Aziraphale scolded gently, coming to stand between Crowley’s legs.

Crowley kissed him, his fingers reaching up between them to untie Aziraphale’s bowtie, which he dropped onto the table beside him before starting on the top buttons of his shirt. Aziraphale’s hands buried themselves in Crowley’s hair and he dragged him to the edge of the table.  Crowley laughed, and unsteadily he fell against Aziraphale after having been abruptly pulled closer.

“Okay, I need you sober if we’re going to do this,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley stared at him defiantly, earning a silent but reprimanding look.

“Oh, that’s not any fun,” he said, but obliged, expelling the alcohol from his bloodstream with a wince and a soft hiss.  “There. Better?”

“Thank you.  Now.  Bedroom.”

“Bedroom?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Bedroom.”

Aziraphale took him by the hand as he hopped off the table, and led him to a side room where there was a little bedroom.  Looked more Victorian than anything else in the damn shop, Crowley thought, if that was even possible.  But before he could say anything else about it, Aziraphale was kissing him again, and shoving his coat off onto the floor.

Crowley backed Aziraphale up to the bed and pushed him down.  He crawled into the angel’s lap then and straddled his hips.

“When did you get a bed?” Crowley asked curiously, his forehead resting on Aziraphale’s as he rolled his hips slowly.

“Um,” Aziraphale hesitated, barely able to contain a moan.  He shut his eyes and cleared his throat.  “Um, 1943. Paris.”

“Paris 1943?” asked Crowley. He rolled his hips again, grinding against Aziraphale’s hardened member.

“ _Yes_.”

“What were you doing there?”

“ _Oh, fuck_.”

“I bet,” Crowley laughed.

“Eh…met Jean Genet,” Aziraphale said.  “French poet. He…he wrote a book about…about, um,  _fuck_ , about French…never mind.”

He kissed Crowley hungrily. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on the front of Crowley’s blouse until finally Crowley had to help him, and he shrugged the thing off.  Without opening his eyes or breaking the kiss, Aziraphale tried to run his hands over Crowley’s bare chest, but was instead met with a bra stuffed with false inserts.  He paused, breaking the kiss so that he could see just what was in the way.  Crowley laughed, and he laughed with him.

“What on earth,” he chuckled.

“Sorry,” said Crowley, pulling the inserts out and dropping them on the bedside table.  He reached behind himself to unhook the bra, and he let it fall down between them.  “That was a bit embarrassing.”

“Yeah?” Aziraphale said, lifting the bra up between them to look at it, then tossing it to the floor.

“The prices you pay for beauty,” Crowley joked, and he pulled Aziraphale in for another kiss.

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer as they kissed, and then he let one hand slide down to hook a hand behind Crowley’s leg to wrap it around him tighter.  Then he slipped a hand under Crowley’s skirt.  Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders tightened at the feeling of the angel’s hand on him.

“This isn’t fair,” he said, breaking the kiss.  He rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s and smiled down at him.  “I can’t do much for you like this.”

“We should fix that,” said Aziraphale softly.

He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s back and rolled them over so Crowley was on his back and he was on top of him.  He got up briefly to unfasten his trousers and get them down, and then he was right back on Crowley.

“Oh, well, you know we could have done this the other way, too,” Crowley laughed, looking up at Aziraphale.

He reached up to touch the angel’s face, but Aziraphale grabbed his hands and slammed them into the pillows above his head without a word.  When Crowley tried to move them, they stayed put.  Aziraphale laughed.  Then he moved back and reached down between them as he lined his body up with Crowley’s.

“Alright, be that way,” said Crowley cheekily.  He started to say something else, but he was cut off at the sudden feeling of Aziraphale inside him.  “ _Fuck_ ,” he said breathlessly.

It didn’t hurt. Aziraphale made sure of that.  But it wasn’t any less of a surprise.

Aziraphale hooked his hands behind Crowley’s knees and wrapped his legs around his waist as he picked up the pace.  His hand returned to Crowley’s cock.  Crowley moaned softly, and his hips started to move with Aziraphale’s.

“Oh,  _fuck_ ,” Crowley said again, “ _God_.”

Aziraphale almost laughed. “There you go again,” he teased.

“Shut up,” breathed Crowley. “ _Harder_.”

Aziraphale obliged, and after a few minutes, he leaned down to kiss Crowley’s throat, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against his lips as Crowley gasped and swallowed, trying to catch his breath.

“You alright there?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley moaned, though Aziraphale could hardly tell if it was an answer.  “Almost there.”  So it was an answer.  “You?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said.

His hips were moving a little more erratically now, and he was glad to hear that Crowley was nearly there as well.  But he didn’t know how much longer he could go.  He prepared to will Crowley’s orgasm to come early, but just as he was about to make the decision, Crowley’s body tensed, his hips rose, and he came with a soft grunt.  Aziraphale finished almost immediately after, nearly collapsing on top of the demon below him.  He rolled over to lie beside Crowley, thinking to himself that he’d better go get something to clean them both up, but before he could bring himself to get up, the mess was gone.

“Oh.  Thank you.  But I could have gotten something,” Aziraphale said, breathing heavily.

Crowley chuckled, breathing just as hard.  “I’m sure you want to get up as much as I do.”

Aziraphale had to agree.

“So now’s as good a time as any for me to tell you what happened after work today,” Crowley said.

“Oh,  _hell_.”


End file.
